


Usurpere

by Jaetion



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Bechdel Test Pass, Challenge Response, Gen, Kirkwall (Dragon Age), Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-11
Updated: 2012-03-11
Packaged: 2017-11-01 19:32:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/360437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jaetion/pseuds/Jaetion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charade's in Lowtown when the Chantry is destroyed, raining down debris and rumors into the ghetto.  My submission to the Women of Dragon Age fest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Usurpere

The thunder of it shook the building and knocked the arrows she'd been fletching off the table, scattering them at her feet like Rivani fortune sticks. The silence that followed filled her ears like she'd stuffed wool in them. She didn't hear the crashing, her other senses were full of the disaster: ground shaking under her feet, acidic smoke in her nose, blood on her tongue. Charade stumbled up and scrambled to gather the completed arrows, then swung her bow over her shoulder as she ran to the door.

“Stay here,” she ordered Gamlen who staggered behind her, and her father for once stayed silent.

The door nearly fell forward when she yanked it open and Charade stood there idiotically, just staring. Something light as moth wings brushed her cheek. Snow, she thought immediately, her palm held out. Ash, she corrected herself, looking at the grey smudge on her fingertip. Above the roofs Hightown was burning.

When someone shoved into her, she grabbed her arm. "Qunari?" she demanded. "What-"

Mais’ mouth was red with blood. “Go to the docks!” she shouted as she pushed away.

Charade let her go and wobbled further into the street. The news came rushing down the stairs like a levee had been broken through, a deluge of words ripping up Lowtown: Hightown was in chaos. The Templars were doing the Rite of Annulment. The mages were rebelling. There were darkspawn coming from the marshes. The Orlesians were invading. The Fereldans were invading. The Prince of Starkhaven was claiming the throne for his own.

She scrubbed her face, feeling the ash smear in her sweat. “Shit,” she said through her fingers. And then she was done with her indecision. Charade’s survival had always depended on movement, running or fighting; she thought that life was over, that with Hawke and Gamlen keeping her steady and set she had found a permanent place in Kirkwall, but she’d never been good at foresight. A hot gust of wind sent embers swirling around like some dragon’s exhale and Charade let herself be swept up in it. Her feet moved her swiftly through the street. There was rubble piling already - something had erupted in the city above and like all shit from Hightown, came rumbling down to Lowtown. There was one place to go, where everyone went in times of desperation.

The Hanged Man.

Corff was there, standing in the door of the Hanged Man wielding the buckets like they were weapons. Something inside had caught fire - the booze stained wood easy fuel - and the sign was already charring. Behind him the tavern bellowed smoke and in front was a gang.

“Rock and a hard place, huh?” she said to herself. Figured Corff, the stubborn bastard, would think the shithole was worth his own life. And figured some stupid gang would think that it was worth looting.

She didn’t pause to figure out who it was. Charade readied the first arrow and it flew through the smoke, and the one in the front - the one with a sword that size of Corff, fell to the barkeep’s feet. It was study of reds and browns - like some old tapestry where the threads had bled together. Her eyes watered as she lined up her next shot, squinting into the chaos to find her target.

Suddenly there was a holler over the crackling fire and something fell from the roofs. Debris, Charade thought wildly, a lucky-for-her collapsing beam. But the shadow stood and flashes of silver like lightning sliced through the cloud. Charade picked off one, two of the distracted looters while Corff’s other savior flashing around him, the barkeep screaming for revenge or maybe shooting encouragement. And then, suddenly again, there was an elf against Charade’s back, fitting next to her spine with a shoulder knocking into her quiver.

“Corff’ll owe me free drinks for a month for this,” the elf said, voice rasping and breathless. “Athenril.”

If she were Hawke - or maybe Hawke as told by Varric - she’d have a clever reply. Instead Charade wiped her weeping eyes on her sleeve and reached for another arrow. “What in Andraste’s ass is going on?”

Her answer was a battle-cry, something Elvish that chilled Charade despite the burning air. The blood thrown on the flames did little to quench them; the fire was spreading up the stairs, or maybe it was raining down from them. More and more people were fleeing down the stairs, too, crashing into Charade’s raised elbow, knocking her shots astray. She cursed over her shoulder at one, “Maker’s fucking blood-”

“The Champion destroyed the Chantry!”

“What?” Charade twisted around to find the speaker, twisted right into one of the looters - Crimson Weavers, she finally recognized the gang - and the punch knocked her down on the hot stones. She kicked up before he could stab, a boot into his stomach that knocked out his breath and dagger. And then Athenril was there, adding her own kick to the Weaver’s head to knock him out. When the elf bent down, offering her hand, Charade finally got a decent look at her; older than she expected, with wrinkles like scars - or maybe just plain scars - around her eyes and mouth. That mouth opened, but before Athenril could speak, more voices shrilled over the sound of the storm. “The Champion’s taking over the Keep!”

They were half screams, the accusations, and in the noise they sounded more like wolves’ howls than real words. Athenril gaped and her and Charade knew she was doing the same. They were still holding onto each other when they turned around and Charade caught someone - some noble this time, silks bloody and gray - shouting at her as the man tried to bucked her off. “What happened? Where’s Hawke?”

“The Chantry’s gone! There was a blast and oh, Maker, it was just gone. Let me go, I need to get out of here!”

“It’s bullshit,” Charade argued at the faceless mob. She and Athenril were shoved to the side by them as they roared over the pair of women. Behind them the Hanged Man and its looters were swallowed up by the crowd, and Charade watched them dazedly, like they were some part of a drunken dream. “Bullshit,” she said again. And then, remembering the elf, she turned toward Athenril and shook herself free. “I’m going to Hightown.”

“What?”

“The Champion - They’re saying -”

“I heard ‘em.”

“She’ll need me,” Charade said and shoved forward, parting the crowd with sharp elbow jabs. Behind her Athenril followed. 

“Yeah? You’re going to help the Champion? By doing what, exactly?”

It didn’t matter anymore. It hadn’t really been a secret but she hadn’t shouted it from the rooftops, even though she’d wanted to. But there was no point in doing either anymore, so she said, not bothering to turn around, “She’s my cousin. I have to go.”

They climbed through the marketplace, past more looters who were hauling desperate amounts of wood and canvas like the broken down stalls were treasure. She didn’t know Athenril was still behind her until she said, “We make a pretty good team. Shit like this makes two kind of people: the quick and the dead. What’s your name, anyway?”

“Charade.”

“A Kirkwall name. All right, let’s go.”

“You’re coming?”

“Hawke’s first friend in this city,” she said grimly. “So there’s a sort of neatness to it. Poetic. Varric would like it.”

The stairs had never been more than another boundary between the two towns. Charade slung her bow over her shoulder and looked up the gauntlet of steps. In the clouds of smoke she could just make out the peaks of the Keep. For a moment it was like she was seeing the Black City from the Chantry catechisms and she had to grip the leather strap of her quiver to keep her hands from shaking. 

Surprise replaced the terror when the elf flew past her, a tug on Charade’s shoulder and she was moving too. With the blade at her hip she sliced a strip of cloth from her skirt and tied it over her nose and mouth. Their ascension was interrupted by more people fleeing; he thought she recognized a few of the frightened faces, the elite that had snubbed her once and now rubbed at her shoulders and the merchant dwarves who’d made a fortune from her exploits, all falling over themselves. And around them down the stairs smoke rolled black.

The flow stopped suddenly, plugged by something higher up the stairs.

“Guards,” Athenril said like she was cursing. 

“I don’t know how to fight it!” one of them shrieked, and Athenril grabbed Charade’s shoulder, nails as sharp as her daggers in Charade’s skin. “It got Chance and Nora, oh Maker-”

“Where are the Templars?” That voice she recognized: Aveline’s husband. “Brennan, find the blasted Templars - We’ll hold it off! That’s an order - Go!”

Athenril started to speak, but the words died with a hiss. When Charade opened her mouth her voice fell silent too and ash melted on her exposed tongue. She could feel the Fade, gaping and raw and horrific and the Chantry had been right. There was a pounding that echoed through her skill like a naked heart was in the staircase, beating beating beating. And then someone - something - spoke, in her and around her and the whole city shook.

_“I am Conceit.”_

Flame circled it like the demon itself was burning. It blotted out the city behind it and the guards that stood like at its feet were tin soldier toys. Its skin was a thousand black scales that swallowed the firelight and reflected back only the guards’ terrified eyes. Thoughts jumbled and tumbled over and over in mad spirals. It had been a mage. A mage had released it. A mage had created it. This was what Hawke had slept next to for years, had partnered with. This was what was in Anders, in all mages.

Something pulled the demon’s attention and Charade felt its ensnarement weaken; the glamour pulled out like poison draining and she step backward, down one, two, three steps into Athenril. Her leather armor dug into Charade’s spine for a second time and the pain cleared the scattered images out of Charade’s mind. She clenched her teeth together and blinked her eyes clear of smoke, then yanked the cloth away from her mouth. “We have to help them.”

“Are you crazy? I’m a thief, not the Knight-Commander.”

“They can’t fight that thing alone! Come on!”

“Yeah? You the new Champion of Kirkwall?”

Charade was already scrambling up onto someone’s abandoned porch. She kicked the furniture out of her way and notched an arrow, holding her breath to keep her hands steady as she took aim. Around the demon the guards were sluggish and skittish all at once until Donnic finally rallied them and they fell into line for an attack. Charade lifted the arrow, searching the demon for a weak spot. It had no eyes, she realized, and somehow that made her stomach flip and churn, just teeth and teeth and teeth. She inhaled and swallowed back the bile that was eating at her throat and released her shot. Below, Athenril moved as quickly as the arrow, dashing in between the guards to slice at the demon’s heavy legs and then dart away before its pendulous arms could sweep her into the fire.

_“You cannot stop me anymore than you can the dreams you conjure of your unacknowledged greatness. You would defeat me to be the hero you yearn to be.”_

It was whispering like a lover, words clear in the muddle mess below. Charade shook her head to dislodge the voice from her ears. “I’m not doing this for myself, demon.”

_“Submit and be the champion you deserve to be.”_

The smoke was choking her like some noose tightening around her neck. Charade spat and cursed, reaching for another arrow as her eyes roamed the stairs in search of the elf. She spotted her at last and Athenril looked up at the same time, her own eyes stark against her bloody face. When she nodded up at her, Charade notched her weapon. And then she took the deepest breath she could and shouted over the crying, the screaming, the burning, “Heads up, demon!”

It swatted the arrow out of the way like an errant fly. The arrow would have lodged itself in the demon’s throat - She had aimed it perfectly, shot it perfectly. But with a lazy shrug of a movement the arrow was shattered and scattered. Just as she had expected.

Just as Athenril expected. The elf flew upward; as the demon lifted its arm she plunged her daggers into the soft flesh there. Furious the demon spun to strike at her. But the chain reaction had begun: Athenril jumped back to safety and the guards charged, swords finishing what the daggers had started. Donnic roared an order, his voice loud over the demon’s keening wail. Charade’s arrows buried themselves in the demon’s hide, down its throat when the maw opened and screamed.

“Come on.” Athenril climbed up to Charade’s perch. She paused to bend over, hands on her knees as she heaved a few breaths, then stood up. “Let’s get out of here before they start asking questions.”

When they were far enough away, Charade cleared her throat and asked, “Did you hear it talk? The demon?”

Athenril’s eyes stared determinedly at the top of the staircase. “Yeah.”

“What did it say?”

There was a long moment filled by the sounds of the city and their heavy breathing. When it became obvious that she wasn’t going to answer, Charade nodded to herself. She lifted her hair off the back of her neck, the tendrils of it wet with her sweat and blood, and wished she had something to keep it up. Her mother had liked it long and Charade had kept the length in Mara’s memory, though at the moment the sentimentality was nonsensical. She let it drop again and followed Athenril’s unsteady steps higher and higher, until the stairs leveled off and Hightown spread out in front of them.

Windows were broken in and the dark holes looked like blinded eyes. There were fires up here, too, but like always Lowtown had had it worse. More guards, Charade noted as they moved swiftly past the empty marketplace, but still no Templars. She wondered where Meredith’s forces were, if they’d retreated to the Gallows or if the Knight-Commander had finally installed herself in the Keep. Much more likely than Hawke doing it, she thought as they slipped by part of the Carta. Charade’s old gang, the Invisible Sisters, had never even tried to compete with the Carta, avoided even being in the same parts of the city as them. Still, Charade didn’t fear them anymore than the other gangs; Hawke had taken them down, like she had everyone else in her way, in Kirkwall and across the Free Marches. But Athenril made a large arc around the dwarves, moving farther away from them than was really necessary. She had dropped down nearly to her knees to sneak passed them, the elf’s back as curved as Charade’s bow. One her arms was bent back, her hand hovering near one of the blades that lay over her shoulder.

When they turned into the heart of Hightown, it was the nothing there that made her stop and grab Athenril again, needing her support. Nothing. No Chantry there, a hole in the sky where the tower had been. “Maker preserve us,” she said, the oath feeling sticky on her lips. “I didn’t believe-”

“Yeah, well, the vhenadahl burned tonight too,” Athenril replied, but her voice wasn’t steady and she had to clear her throat before she continued. “We’re almost there. Come on.”

The Amell estate was still there, still standing big and impressive while around it the rest of Hightown was crumbling and the shit piled up, and Charade released a shaky breath. She ran past Athenril to bang on the massive front door. “Hawke! Bodahn? Orana? Anders?”

When they finally picked the lock and pushed open the door, the house yawned black. Charade cupped her hands over her mouth, unable to stop herself from calling again even though it was obviously useless, “Hawke? Hawke, it’s Charade. Hawke... Larissa. Are you there?”

“She’s gone,” Athenril pronounced. “Should’ve guessed it.”

They closed the door and stood in the darkness. The fires outside lit the room in intermittent golds and Charade could see glimpses of Hawke’s life in the shadows - the portrait of some Amell, her spare boots by the fireplace, a stack of letters sliding off the table. “She’s probably off fighting an archdemon,” she said with a short laugh. “Or maybe the Fereldan army.”

It wasn’t funny but Athenril chuckled anyway. “I wonder what really happened. The Chantry’s gone, but something bigger than that’s happened. Look kid, I’m getting out of the city. What are you going to do now?”

She hadn’t thought that far. She hadn’t thought much at all, Charade realized. The bow was threatening to fall off her shoulder and she finally let it, then pulled her quiver off, too. “Stay here,” she said at last. “I’ll keep the looters out, anyway.”

“Sure.” The elf hesitated, glancing around before reluctantly meeting Charade’s eyes again. “Look, if you see Hawke...”

“Yeah?”

“Tell her something. I don’t know. Make something up.” When Charade nodded, Athenril clapped her on the shoulder and tried to smile. Her lips were cracked and smeared with rusty dried blood, and when she wiped them with her leather glove, all she succeeded in doing was adding ash to it. “Hey, you weren’t half bad out there. Maybe if I’d met you first, instead of Hawke...”

Maybe if she’d hadn’t joined a gang, if she’d come with her family instead of searching for them, if she’d come through the front gates instead of sneaking in through the cracks, maybe if she’d arrived at the beginning instead of at the end of the final act.

“Yeah. You too,” Charade said, which didn’t make much sense but made Athenril smile more anyway.

“Sure,” she said again. “Kill off a few Carta for me, will you?”

When Athenril opened the door light and noise poured in, then stopped as suddenly when it swung closed again. Charade stood there in the hall, bleeding a little onto the rug. Hawke wasn’t going to come back, she thought and was immediately certain she was right. That realization was followed by another: it didn’t matter. Charade was going to protect it for her anyway. So she picked up her weapons again and took her post by the door.


End file.
